The little tree complains:
"My glass lies on the ground;
Each other tree remains
With its green dress all round.
Might I but have my wish once more,
I'd have of those green leaves good store.”
Again asleep is the little tree,
And early wakes to the light;
He is covered with green leaves fair to see.
He laughs outright,
And says, "I am now all nicely drest,
Nor need be ashamed before the rest.”
And now, with udders full,
Forth a wild she-goat sprung,
Seeking for herbs to pull
To feed her young.
She sees the leaves, nor makes much talk,
But strips all clear to the very stalk.
The little tree again is bare,
And thus to himself he said,
"No longer for such leaves I care,
Be they green, or yellow, or red :
If I had but my needles again,
I would never more scold or complain."
The little tree slept sad that night,
And sadly opened his eye;
He sees himself in the sun's first light,
And laughs as he would die :
And all the trees in a roar burst out;
But the tree cared little for all their flout.
What made the little tree laugh like mad?
And what set the rest in a roar?
In a single night soon back he had
Every needle he had before;
And every body may see them such;
Go out and look, but do not touch.
How soft! how calm! what stillness breathes around,
Bidding each care, each earthly passion cease;
In gentle accents whispering from the ground
A grateful earnest of eternal peace.
TO THE NIGHTINGALE.
SWEET Philomel! no more thy voice I hear
Warbling at eve to meet my pensive ear
As by thy wonted haunts again I rove;
Why art thou silent? Why so long delay
To charm with gentle song my cares away,
And fill with melody the leafy grove?
The shrill bat flutters by; from yon dark tower
The shrieking owlet hails the shadowy hour;
Hoarse hums the beetle as he drones along :The task of love is done! Thy full-fledged brood No longer need thy care to cull their food,
And nothing now remains to prompt thy song; But drear and sullen seems the silent grove, No more responsive to thy lay of love.
THE EVENING CLOUD.
A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun,
A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow;
As now I watch'd its glory moving on,
Serene its spirit seem'd, and floated slow.
And such me-thought the pure departed soul,
To whose bright robe the gleam of bliss is given,
And by the breath of mercy made to roll
Right onward to the golden gates of heaven.
AN EMIGRANT'S THOUGHTS OF HOME.
WHEN pensive thoughts of life's young day,
Still sweetly in our memories dwell,
Though year on year have roll'd away
Since last we breathed our fond farewell;
Oh, then, at evening's silent hour,
May long-lost voices haunt our bow'r,
And fancy's echo sounding near,
Convey them to our listening ear!
Like the wild chime of village bells
Heard far away in mountain dells.
FAR, far, amid those distant seas
Where ev'ning leaves her latest smile,
Where solemn ocean's earliest breeze
Breathes peaceful o'er our holy isle;
Far from that vain distracted world,
Where care has rear'd her anxious throne,
With passion's ensign sweetly furl'd,
We live and breathe for Heaven alone.
Here fann'd by heav'nly temper'd winds,
Our island lifts her tranquil breast,
Oh! come to her, ye wounded minds,
Oh! come and share our holy rest!
When sinks the sun beyond the west,
Our vesper hymn salutes him there;
And when he wakes the world from rest,
We meet his morning light with prayer.
To all the same returning light,
The same returning fervour brings;
And thoughtful in the dawning bright,
The spirit spreads her heav'nward wings.
How long shalt thou be thus divine,
Fair isle of piety and song;
How long those blissful days be thine,
Oh, land of peace and rest-how long?
Ir is not growing like a tree
In bulk doth make man better be;
Or standing long, an oak three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere.
A lily of a day
Is fairer far in May,
Although it fall and die that night;
It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions we just beauties see,
And in short measures life may perfect be.
If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,
Go visit it by the pale moonlight;
For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild, but to flout, those ruins gray.
When the broken arches are black in night,
And each shafted oriel glimmers white;
When the cold light's uncertain show'r
Streams on the ruin'd central tower,
When silver edges the imagery,
And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;
When distant Tweed is heard to rave,
And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave,
Then go-but go alone the while-
And view St. David's ruin'd pile,
And, home returning, soothly swear,
Was never scene so sad, so fair!
THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.
OUR bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd,
And the sentinel-stars set their watch in the sky,
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,
The wearied to sleep, and the wounded to die.
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain,
In the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice, ere the morning, I dreamt it again.
Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far had I roam'd on a desolate track,
'Twas in autumn, and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.
I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft
In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strains that the corn-reapers
Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,
And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. "Stay, stay with us; rest-thou art weary and worn!" And fain was the war-broken soldier to stay; But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
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